


Dopamine Deficient

by Glitchinthedark



Series: THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY WHUMPTOBER 2020 [21]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves Needs Help, Pre-Season/Series 01, Sobriety, The Umbrella Academy - Freeform, Umbrella Academy - Freeform, Whump, tua - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:52:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27139652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitchinthedark/pseuds/Glitchinthedark
Summary: "He was only 22, he had plenty of time to sort his life out; sobriety was overrated anyway." Klaus fails his first attempt at sobriety.
Series: THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY WHUMPTOBER 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949950
Kudos: 4
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Dopamine Deficient

It had been nearly 24hours; the longest Klaus had gone without a hit or high since he was 16. God knows what motivated him to become sober, he was 22, still able to throw his life away without anybody so much as batting an eyelid. Nobody ever told him it would be this hard but in fairness, nobody he stuck around ever attempted sobriety. All happy in their own bubbles, finding a sordid sort of happiness within their own self destruction. He saw the way the drugs and alcohol destroyed the lives of his friends, the way the addictions crept into every crevice of their being, taking over their minds and slowly destroying them completely unaware. Perhaps they were aware, but lived in ignorance, a blissful path to their imminent destruction far away from any real thought.

Minutes blurred by like seconds while at the same time, second dragged into minutes. Each section of the day was different, time was just a myth as he disassociated from the world, trapped in his own bubble of withdrawal. It was agonising, the constant pounding in his head, the pain behind his eyes that wished for one last hit before he stopped. The way the feelings crawl under the skin, reaching the endings of every nerve of the body frantically searching for any last molecule of dopamine to fuel the addiction. The addiction that burned through every inch of his skin, every vein and capillary that spread across his body as he stood wincing in disconnected state of pain. Light burned through his eyelids, the beads of sweat beginning to fall down his face as his body continued its long-winded shutdown. The fatigue was endless; every time he felt he was at the end of his tether, the rope only grew longer, making his body heavy as he carried the weight of his withdrawal. 

Stumbling through the dulled-out streets of the night, falling through the crowds of people whose body heat only set his skin on fire, Klaus attempted to find any semblance of help through his bodies self-sabotage. He sat across from the busy clubs, his eyes getting lost amongst the spiralling strobes of colour spreading out from the doors of the venues smoking areas. Sofa surfing with only a few clothes and personal items meant one never looked their best, but the dishevelled look, the run eyeliner and tattered clothes only threw him to the lower end of the spectrum. Drunk passers-by glanced at him with some sort of preluded sympathy, sparing a second of their thoughts before running back to the thrills of the late night that drew them in. He never deserved any sympathy; in the end he did this to himself. 

Klaus sighed as a piece of paper flew down into his face. Some sympathetic, maybe just too drunk to care stranger had dropped 10 dollars into his lap, probably mistaking him as a homeless beggar. Not that he was too far from it. 10 dollars wasn’t enough for any good quality drugs but was enough to buy him a cheap bottle of alcohol, something to pull him out of this slump. Walking to the nearest liquor store he bought the cheapest bottle of vodka he could find on the shelves, the cashier giving him a look of sympathy mixed with disappointment. Not that it mattered, it was his own choice. Sitting back on the streets he swigged straight from the bottle, letting the burning alcohol burn a hole in his throat. The quality was terrible, smelling like petrol and tasting like one would imagine drain cleaner to taste, but it didn’t matter. Soon he would be somewhat free of the withdrawal, the insufferable state he had impulsively thrown himself into. 

He was only 22, he had plenty of time to sort his life out; sobriety was overrated anyway.


End file.
